Archive of Our Own

The scent of salt mixed with smoke filled his lungs at every breath he took. Flames cracked against the sky, throwing shadows over the cobbled streets of the island town. Screams rose from the docks—men, women, children scrambling to flee as gunshots echoed in the night.

Max stalked through it, boots pounding the stones, sword clinking at his hip. His coat snapped in the wind, soaked from sea spray.

“Secure the eastern side!” he bellowed to his men. “No one leaves  through that bay!”

They scattered like well-trained dogs, rifles drawn, quick.

His grip tightened on the hilt at his side. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t like the other raids. It was too clean. There was chaos, yes, but no one seemed to be hurt. The cannon fire had stopped the moment the Navy ship rounded the cliffs, like the attackers had given up the destruction once they saw the Navy.

All I wanted was peace, he thought bitterly.

This port, specifically, was supposed to be quiet. It was famously secured by the Navy a few years ago. Pirates would only dock here for two reasons: Desperation or as a challenge, and, honestly, Max was not in the mood for a challenge today.

A shriek pierced the air, and Max moved immediately. A store owner shoved from their doorway. Gold and silver scattered into the muddy street. Pirates ran, laughing.

Max rounded the corner, chasing them, when his eyes locked on the sails of the ship, hoisted up, ready for a speedy retreat if necessary.

Bright crimson against the blue sky.

His stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no. 

It couldn’t fucking be—

But it fucking was.

In the corner of his eye, there was a flash of white, a shirt too fine for a pirate, stained with blood and open at the throat. Brown curls, wild and windswept, gleaming under the firelight. The greenest eyes Max has even seen. A laugh carried over the din, rich, bright, utterly at odds with the panic surrounding it.

Max’s jaw clenched. His hand was already at his sword, fingers ghosting over the hilt, ready to draw it. He could feel the pulse pounding in his temple, furious.

Of course it was him.

Of all the gods-forsaken crews in the Caribbean, it had to be his.

A loud smash echoed as the door of the jeweler’s shop flew open with Max's kick.

And there he was— Captain Charles Hervé Leclerc, standing amidst shattered display cases, scooping fistfuls of gold into a canvas sack. His rings caught the firelight, glinting wickedly as though mocking the very laws Max had sworn to uphold.

Max stepped into the doorway. His voice came out low. As controlled as he could manage.

“Charles.”

The pirate froze for half a heartbeat, then, without turning, Charles chuckled— a smooth, lazy sound, as if they were two old friends meeting in a tavern instead of the scene of an active crime.

“Well, well,” He finally spun around, tossing a strand of pearls into his sack without looking. His green eyes raked lazily over Max. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Max drew his sword fully, leveling it between them. The tip pointed directly to his throat. “Drop it.” He warned.

Charles tsked, eying the sword with distaste. “Rude.”

“Drop it, Charles. I swear—”

“Oh, mon capitaine...” His smile stretched, seductive. “Must we do this every time?” He rolled his eyes.

Max took a step forward, blade glinting in the firelight. “I won't ask again.”

“Oh,” Charles’s fingers brushed lazily over the hilt of his own cutlass. He leaned back against the broken counter, eyes glinting. “Have I ever told you how sexy you sound when you use your captaine voice?”

“Stop.”

“I suppose I haven't.” Charles tilted his head, lips curling. “Shame.”

Max’s teeth ground together. “Charles.” He warned.

They stood frozen for a second, Max's breath coming out strong, while Charles looked like the face of composure.

Max could feel every beat of his heart hammering against his ribs. The memory of a hundred past encounters surged up: chases, duels, shouted threats exchanged across ship decks. All the close calls.

Charles shifted. His eyes flicked from the blade to Max’s face. Slowly, the smugness softened, not fully gone, but now his eyes had a tiny bit of sadness to them. Max hated how it made his heart hurt.

“I missed you, you know,” Charles murmured.

“Don’t.”

“Missed you terribly.” His voice dropped, low and velvet. “Did you miss me, Max?”

Max’s breath caught. For a second—just a second—he faltered.

And that was all Charles needed.

In one fluid motion, Charles surged forward, grabbed a fistful of Max’s coat, disarmed Max, yanked him down and slammed their mouths together.

Max reeled.

His mind screamed no, but his body betrayed him instantly. His fingers tightened in Charles’s shirt, dragging him impossibly close, kissing back like a man starved. Heat flared— something wild, reckless, wrong— but so damn familiar. The taste of salt, rum and smoke. Charles’s teeth scraping his lip. The velvet heat of his mouth.

Max groaned, whether in frustration or need, he wasn’t sure.

Then sense came crashing back.

Max shoved him hard, breath ragged. “Charlie.”

Charles grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Mmm?”

Max scrubbed a hand down his face, trying, and failing, to shake the flush burning his skin. “What have I told you,” he hissed, voice sharp, “about raiding this area? This is Navy territory.”

A dramatic gasp. “Exactly.”

“What?”

“How else,” Charles said, lips curving into something wicked, his fingers playing with an honor medal in Max's uniform. “am I supposed to run into you?

“Charles...”

“Oh, don’t scowl like that, you’ll get wrinkles, mon cher.” Charles chuckled, stepping even closer. His eyes softened and Max hated how his heart fluttered at that. “How have you been?”

“Don’t start.”

“No, really.” Charles shifted his weight on his feet, his usual tone of teasing gone, genuine curiosity lacing his voice. “Where’ve you been hiding, hm? Disappeared for weeks.”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Oh, Maxy.” Charles sighed, hands spreading in Max's chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt now. “Always so secretive.”

Max’s mouth twitched despite himself. “As if you’d tell me where you’ve been.”

“Touché.” Charles smirked, popping open the button in Max's collar. “But for you, I’ll be generous. Let’s say...somewhere warm, sunny. Very… Mediterranean.”

Max’s eyes narrowed as he linked the dots.“That was you, wasn’t it?”

Charles pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Max, please. You know I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You sank a Navy vessel.” Max sighed, exasperated. “You know how much that costs the crown?”

A flash of something passed through Charles’s eyes—annoyance, maybe? But it was gone in a blink, replaced with that maddening smirk. “It was either them or me, mon cher. And don't worry, your precious crown won't break if I sink a ship or seven.”

“Damn it, Charles.” But there’s no heat in it. Just that familiar, gnawing helplessness. They’ve danced this dance too many times. It was way too familiar by now. Max dragged a hand through his hair. “You really know how to make my life difficult.”

“C’est mon rôle, non?” Charles said, laughing quietly. His gaze softened. “When will I see you again?”

Max hesitated, glanced over his shoulder instinctively. No backup in sight, not yet, and lowered his voice. “I’ve got five days’ leave...in a fortnight.”

Charles’s entire face brightened. “Our spot?”

“Our spot.” He nodded.

For a moment, the fire outside felt far away. The only thing real was the space between them. It almost felt thin, fragile. Like one wrong move it would fray. 

Max wanted to stay in this moment forever, to keep it for as long as he could. Charles, in his arms, breathing and healthy and safe. He couldn't ask for anything else.

But then he heard the shouts of his own men outside, and reality crept back like a harsh wave.

Max sighed, heavy. “I need to arrest you, Charlie.”

Charles hummed, almost fond. His hands were now playing with the hair in Max's nape. It was getting long now, he'd have to cut it soon. “I know.”

“We should at least make it look like I tried.” He sighed in pleasure when Charles' fingertips touched the base of his skull.

A theatrical sigh. “Do what you must, chéri.” Charles took a step back and Max hated how be already missed his touch.

Max squared his shoulders. “Hit me.”

“Oh.” Charles blinked. “Mon amour, I could never—”

“Charles, you know how this goes. It needs to look real.”

A beat.

Then, with an overly dramatic sigh, Charles reeled back and punched Max square in the jaw.

CRACK.

Pain bloomed on his chin and cheek. Max stumbled, hand flying to his face. “Motherf— Charles!”

“You told me to make it look believable!” Charles was already grabbing him by the shoulders, all coos and apologies. “Oh, cher, are you alright? I didn’t mean—”

Max snarled, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him in for one more kiss, this one messy, punishing. His teeth caught Charles’s bottom lip and bit down hard, until the coppery tang of blood bloomed between them.

“You absolute brute!” Charles hissed, rolling his ‘R’s’ in a way Max found very endearing.

Max pulled back, wiping his thumb over the smear of blood, lips twitching. “Now we’re even.”

Footsteps echoed, distant for now, but closing in.

Charles backed toward the alley’s mouth, cocky as ever. “A fortnight then, mon capitaine. Don’t be late.”

Max nodded, jaw throbbing. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Charles blew him a kiss and vanished into the shadows, nothing left but the ghost of his grin and the scent of smoke on the wind.

Max stood there a second longer, rubbing his sore jaw as his first mate rounded the corner.

“Captain! Are you alright?” Daniel panted. “Did you engage the raiders?”

Max sighed heavily. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing his sword from the floor and sheathing it. “But he got away.”

Again.

—

The room was silent, save for the sound of boots pacing against polished wood outside and the scratch of ink on parchment. The walls were lined with maps, medals, and models of ships in glass cases. Symbols of order, pride, and discipline. Things Max Verstappen usually stood for.

Commodore Webber stopped writing and sighed deeply. “You let him go again. What a disappointment.”

Max didn’t flinch even if the words felt like a slap to the face. “I failed once again, Commodore.” It pained Max to admit this, but he was in no position to argue. “I engaged in a fight on my own, thinking I could best him alone. If I had waited for my men—”

“Your men look up to you, Captain. You’re supposed to be the best we’ve got.” Webber slammed a thick hand against the desk. “Five attacks in the past eight months. And every time, you’re the one sent. Every time, you come back with an empty brig and excuses.”

Max stared ahead. His uniform felt heavier today. Tight at the collar. Damp at the back.

“Do you have any idea how this makes you look?” Webber growled. “You’re two commendations away from Commodore. You’ve done more before twenty-five than half the officers in this fleet. And yet you keep failing. I'm starting to think we were wrong about you, captain.”

Max’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

“I’ve seen you in battle, Verstappen. You’re ruthless. You’ve brought down men twice your size, sunk vessels with surgical precision, cleared smuggler ports like it was nothing.” Webber narrowed his eyes. “Must I remind you, that you were the one who single handedly ended the tyranny of Hamilton and his crew?”

“I am flattered sir, but one could argue captain Rosberg—”

“No! It was you who led him to the gallows. You who put a sword on his throat and sank his ship. You who won the honor medal for your accomplishments.” The commodore shook his head. “So why can’t you bring me one pirate? One man?”

Max swallowed. His throat was dry.

He thought of Charles, grinning as he took away someone else's gold, his voice like honey and thunder, the warmth of his lips still echoing days later, the crack of his fist against Max’s jaw softened by the way he’d cooed an apology.

He thought of their spot on the reef. Of whispered conversations and stolen hours.

He thought of a gallow and being the one who'd walk him there. The pain squeezed at his heart immediately.

“I’ll get him,” Max said finally, quietly and solemnly. Even if he knew the truth was far from this. "Next time.”

Webber scoffed. “I’m starting to wonder if you are capable of it, Verstappen.”

Max didn’t answer. He couldn't. He stood still until he was dismissed.

Outside, the salt air hit him hard. It helped him to sober up a bit. 

The sun was bright and blinding, glittering off the bay where his ship was docked. The Bliksem. Sleek and fast. Inside, he could see his men working, polishing the deck with efficiency, undyingly loyal to him, ready to follow his every order…

Orders himself never followed when it came to one name on their most wanted list.

Charles Leclerc. Pirate. Thief. Traitor. Wanted for smuggling, raiding, and a dozen other offenses against the crown.

And Max couldn't bear to see him hang.

No one would understand that. They’d call him a  traitor. They’d call him weak. Crazy. Unreasonable. They might be right.

But love didn’t come with the luxury of reason.

So Max took the reprimand, like he would take every reprimand after, if that meant Charles was safe. He let his commander’s voice ring in his ears like a gunshot and he'd say nothing.

Because that way he could keep his position, could continue protecting Charles, even if in the end he might be condemning himself.

Because he knew that when the time came again, when Charles looked at him with that wild glint in his eyes, Max would let him go, even if that meant he himself would end up in the gallows instead.

—

The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, shimmering under the orange-pink haze of sunset. Charles stood alone at the helm, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the hilt of the pistol at his belt.

The wind tugged at his curls. Salt clung to his lips. But all he could taste was Max.

Their last kiss still lingered. It always did.

He never meant for it to turn into a raid. He knew that those waters were infested with the Navy, and in a perfect world they would never even sail close. But their supplies were running low and food was scarce. So he made the executive decision to send two of his newest men – ones that hadn't been marked as Pirates yet – on a small boat for supplies and stay as far as he could from the island.

But he’d known the second he’d spotted the naval insignia on the ships at harbor that there was a chance. A foolish, dangerous, intoxicating chance.

And then he changed his plans.

“Idiot,” Charles muttered to himself.

He hadn’t seen Max in over three months. 

He’d waited by the Portuguese coast for weeks, keeping his crew anchored in coves and caves, all for a glimpse of a navy vessel that never came. It seemed like the Navy sent every other ship on their fleet, except the one he wanted.

So when he saw that one ship, The Bliksem, he let the temptation win.

A reckless gamble. Just to see him again.

Just to feel alive for a minute again.

He exhaled slowly, gripping the wheel a little tighter.

He knew what this was. Had known for years. This thing between them could only end one way. Max was the Navy’s golden boy. Charles was everything Max had sworn to destroy. And still…

Still, Charles couldn’t bring himself to stop.

He’d been telling himself to stay away since the first time they crossed blades and Max had let him go without even a scratch. And every time since. It never worked.

Charles just missed him. Like the air he breathes.

“Five days off in a fortnight,” Max had said, low and hoarse like it hurt to admit.

Charles closed his eyes. Counting down the seconds.

“Capitaine!” A voice pulled him back, so familiar it could be his own. “Calamar! Supper’s ready.”

Charles turned to see Pierre Gasly at the edge of the deck, sleeves rolled up, hair damp with sea spray. A smudge of soot crossed one cheek like a battle scar. 

“Are you day dreaming about the man in blue again, Calamar?” Pierre asked with a smirk.

Charles huffed a laugh and walked toward him. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I do know. The entire ship knows. It’s impossible not to know, mon capitaine, considering you swoon for him.” Pierre mimed swooning dramatically, hand to heart.

Charles punched him lightly on the shoulder as they descended below deck.

The mess hall was warm and loud, lit by swinging lanterns. A small part of the crew, the ones Charles trusted the most, had gathered in the kitchen already, talking a little too loudly.

Carlos sat at the end of the long table, chewing with intensity, arms covered in grease from fixing the rudder again. Alex was next to him, flipping coins and losing every single one to Oscar, who didn’t even look up from his soup.

Ollie, glasses perched crookedly on his nose, was poring over navigational charts mid-bite. Esteban and Lance were arguing about something again.

Charles took it all in with a deep breath. 

This ship, these men, were his family. The one he chose after he had to leave his real one behind. He loved these men deeply, even if he was constantly dragging them toward their ruin.

He took his place at the head of the table, next to Pierre, raising his mug. “To the wind at our backs,” he said.

“And to hell with the fools who try to stop us,” Pierre added with a grin.

They all clinked mugs, and Charles smiled.

But somewhere inside, his thoughts drifted again—north, east, wherever Max might be now. Writing a report. Getting yelled at. Never loving Charles the way he loved Max.

He took a long sip of the ale.

Only two more weeks.

—

Max’s boots crunched over sun-bleached stones as he stepped off the small skiff, dragging it higher up the shore. The island was quiet. Just the sound of gulls and the gentle hush of waves crashing onto rocks. The sea breeze against his skin was cool and briny, the sky was blue and sunny in a way that made everything feel promising.

There were no sails on the horizon beside his own.

He was early.

Max adjusted the strap of the satchel across his shoulder and began the short trek through the familiar path. The greenery had grown since the last time he'd been there, thick and stubborn, but his feet knew the way by memory. Up the mossy rise, past the bend in the stream, half-hidden by ivy and time, stood the cabin.

Old, crooked, roof patched up with whatever wood they could find. A single window, cracked and cloudy with salt. 

Max’s heart thudded once, deep and low, as he approached slowly.

It felt like returning home.

He touched the door. The wood was damp and soft. When it creaked open, a wave of nostalgia hit him—of long nights and soft sighs, of Charles humming as he cooked over the fire, of the two of them crammed together on the narrow cot, legs tangled, whispering sweet nothings into each other's skin.

The cabin was dark, shadows stretching long from the corners. But something was wrong.

The tiniest movement by the corner of his eye.

Max's body reacted before his mind could. He drew his pistol smoothly from his belt, his eyes scanned fast the cot, the shelf,  the shadow moving near the hearth.

And then—

“Max.”

The voice, warm and amused and dangerous in all the ways Max had no defense against.

Charles stepped out of the dark, hands raised lazily. His hair was tousled, his collar undone, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—shone in the half-light like the sea at dusk.

Max felt the relief hit him immediately.

“God,” he muttered, letting the pistol drop to his side. “You scared me.”

Charles smiled, slowly lowering his hands. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” Max blinked. “I didn’t see your ship.”

“She’s anchored behind the eastern bluff,” Charles said, walking closer, casual in the way only he could be after nearly getting Max court-martialed two weeks ago. “We came from a different route.”

“Causing trouble somewhere else this time?” Max asked with no bite. His hands were itching to have Charles closer, to hold his waist.

Charles tilted his head, eyes sharp with mischief and affection. “Why? Should I save all my trouble just for you?”

Max looked at him for a long second. “Maybe.”

Charles stepped closer, slow, until their boots nearly touched. “Should I give you some trouble right now, Mon captaine?”

Max didn’t need to be asked twice.

He reached for Charles with both hands, and kissed him like he was man starved.

When they broke apart, Charles grinned, cheeks pink, eyes gleaming. “Did you miss me, chéri?”

Max laughed softly against Charles’s mouth, breathless in a way no battle had ever managed to make him. “I missed that mouth of yours, yes.”

Charles’s grin widened, pleased, like he’d spent the past few months surviving solely for the satisfaction of hearing those words.

His fingers slid beneath Max’s coat, slow and familiar, pushing the heavy navy fabric off his shoulders inch by inch. “Mm,” he hummed. “I was worried perhaps the Crown finally seduced you away from me.”

“The Crown has significantly fewer” Max’s hand lowered as he grabbed a fist full of Charles' ass. “redeeming qualities.”

Charles barked out a laugh at that, warm and bright, and Max felt something inside his chest loosen immediately. God, he had missed that sound.

Missed him.

Charles finally tugged the coat free completely, letting it fall carelessly onto the floorboards. His hands lingered at Max’s waist afterward, thumbs brushing beneath his shirt almost absentmindedly, like he couldn’t stop touching him now that he had him again.

Max understood the feeling intimately.

He reached up, threading his fingers into Charles’s curls, tugging just enough to make Charles tilt his head back slightly. Sunlight from the window caught against his throat.

Beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking.

Max kissed him again, just because he could.

Charles melted into it instantly, smiling against his lips. The kiss deepened, the months of missing each other poured into every touch.

Max backed him toward the small table near the hearth without breaking the kiss. 

Charles bumped into it with a muffled laugh, hands gripping the front of Max’s shirt.

“You’re impatient today,” Charles murmured against his lips.

“You talk too much.”

“I thought you liked my mouth,” Charles retorted, his lips moving toward Max's ear, leaving peppered kisses in its wake. “But maybe I should use it for something else.”

Max groaned softly and kissed him harder.

The cabin felt warm already despite the sea breeze slipping through the cracked window. Their boots scraped against the wooden floor as Max pressed closer, chest to chest, hand sliding beneath Charles’s loosened shirt until his palm met bare skin.

Charles sighed.

There it was. That little sound Max had spent the last three months missing.

His thumb traced slowly over Charles’s ribs, feeling the familiar lines of old scars beneath his fingertips. He remembered every single one. Some from sword fights. Some from Max's own sword. Some Charles refused to explain.

Some, though, were new. He wanted to ask. To know what Charles had been up to that could have caused them.

Max never pushed.

It was their rule.

No asking questions that could ruin them both.

So instead, Max kissed the corner of Charles’s mouth and whispered, “You’re thinner.” He frowned. “You're skipping meals again?”

Charles snorted softly. “I thought thinness was all the rage in Paris, non?”

“I thought Pierre promised he would feed you.” Max frowned even deeper. The last time this happened, when Charles fainted from weakness, Pierre had promised him that he would force feed his captain if needed.

“He did,” Charles sighs, annoyed. “I was busy, okay? Skipped just a couple meals. Nothing to be worried about.”

“Busy with what?”

“With missing you.” Charles said, smiling. Max rolled his eyes affectionately, though the warmth blooming in his chest betrayed him completely. 

Charles reached up suddenly, fingers brushing along Max’s jaw where faint bruising still lingered from their last encounter.

“Does it still hurt?” he murmured. Max knew what Charles was doing and he was going to indulge him a little, but he wasn't going to let this go that easily. He was going to make sure to feed Charles during these three days.

“No, but you have a mean right hook.”

“Mm. Learned from the best.” Charles smirked.

Max laughed again, quieter this time. The sound surprised even him.

Charles looked at him then with that unbearably soft expression Max only ever saw when they were alone like this.

“I really did miss you,” Charles admitted quietly.

Something in Max’s chest tightened painfully.

He answered by kissing him again, slower now, his hand cupping the back of Charles’s neck while Charles’s arms slipped around his waist. The world outside faded easily after that—the ocean, the navy, the bounty posters, the inevitable ending waiting for them somewhere down the line.

None of it mattered here.

Here, Charles leaned into him with a happy little sigh when Max kissed beneath his jaw. Here, Max could feel Charles smiling softly against his shoulder as he tugged him toward the cot. Here, for just a little while, they could pretend they belonged only to each other.

Charles fell backward onto the narrow bed with a laugh as Max followed immediately after him, bracing himself above him.

“Careful, Mon capitaine,” Charles teased softly. “You’ll ruin your uniform.”

Max looked down at him—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, curls spread across the pillow—and felt utterly doomed.

“Guess I'll just have to take it off then.”

Charles’s eyes darkened, the green almost fully swollen up by black.

Then he reached up, pulled Max back down into another kiss, and the rest of the world disappeared completely.

Max barely caught himself before crushing Charles fully into the mattress.

Not that Charles seemed to mind.

In fact, the pirate looked entirely too pleased about the situation. One of his hands slid lazily beneath Max’s shirt, fingertips dragging over warm skin.

“You’re staring, chéri.” Charles murmured.

Max leaned down slowly, brushing his nose against Charles’s jaw. “Can you blame me?”

“Mm, no. But less staring, more kissing, oui?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh against his throat and kissed the spot just below his ear. Charles reacted immediately, breath hitching softly, fingers tightening in Max’s shirt.

There it was again.

That little sound.

Max might genuinely die from missing it so much.

Charles shifted beneath him, one leg hooking loosely around Max’s hip to pull him closer. The movement made Max exhale sharply through his nose, every nerve in his body suddenly far too aware of how long it had been since they’d had this.

Charles noticed instantly, how could he not?

“Oh,” he said softly, eyes gleaming with delight. “Someone really did miss me.”

Max groaned and buried his face in Charles’s shoulder. He couldn't bring himself to agree verbally, instead Max bit lightly at his shoulder in retaliation, earning a surprised laugh.

The cabin creaked softly around them, the wind rattling the windowpanes while sunlight spilled across the bed in warm golden streaks. Outside, waves crashed quietly against the cliffs. 

Charles’s hands wandered lower beneath Max’s shirt, tracing along his spine. “How long do I have you for this time?” he asked quietly.

Max hated the question immediately.

“Two days. I promised to visit Victoria before she gives birth.”

Charles hummed softly. “That’s not enough.”

“No,” Max admitted.

It never was.

Charles looked up at him then with something softer than teasing in his expression. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

Max kissed him before either of them could ruin the moment by speaking.

Charles melted beneath him, mouth parting against his with a soft sigh that went straight through Max’s ribs. Their legs tangled together instinctively, familiar and easy after years of stolen moments like this.

Max slid his hand down Charles’s waist, feeling him shiver beneath the touch.

God.

He was so utterly gone for this man who would fall apart against a single one of his touches.

Charles reached up suddenly and tugged gently at Max's hair. “You cut your hair.” Charles murmured, unhappy.

“Regulation,” Max replied.

“I like it longer.”

“I know.” Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about that. 

Charles ran his fingers through the short strands, pulling them slightly. “Such a shame.”

Max, in turn, ran his own fingers through Charles' hair. “Yours is longer.”

“Do you prefer it shorter, Mon Capitaine?”

Max hummed, shaking his head. “I don't care either way. But it's pretty like this.”

Charles smiled, softly. “Get used to it, then. Can't bear to cut it without maman.”

“How is she?” Max hadn't been on the island in over a year. The only reason he was going back was for Victoria's insistence. His sister wanted to see him before she gave birth for the first time.

He sees the sadness in Charles' eyes, and immediately wishes he hadn't asked. Unlike for Max, leaving his family behind was extremely difficult for Charles.

“She wrote last month,” he said quietly, still running his fingers through Max’s shortened hair. “Lorenzo too.”

Max kept one hand resting against Charles’s waist, thumb moving slowly over warm skin. “How are they?”

Charles exhaled softly through his nose. “Safe. I think.” A pause. “Your father has the island crawling with Navy officers now.”

Max stilled.

Charles looked away toward the cracked window. “Maman said there are patrols every day. Random inspections. They ask questions about me sometimes.” His mouth twisted faintly. “She told me not to come back.”

Something heavy settled in Max’s chest.

He leaned forward automatically, pressing his mouth briefly against Charles’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Charles shrugged one shoulder, trying for casual and failing slightly. “Not your fault.”

But it was complicated, wasn’t it?

Because Max’s father had always been a sore spot for them.

Max breathed him in instead, smelling his characteristic scent of ocean air and incense. And underneath it—

Cigars.

Max frowned faintly.

“You’re smoking again?”

Charles huffed out a weak laugh. “You noticed.”

“Are you anxious?”

“Well.” Charles’s fingers slowed in Max’s hair. “Can you blame me?”

No.

Not really.

His eyes still drifted downward, tracing absent patterns along Charles’s ribs.

Scars crossed his torso in pale silver lines, some thin, some jagged. Some Max knew the history, some new.

His eyes landed on one near Charles’s shoulder from when they were teens and Jos — Max's father — had broken a bottle on him when Charles got in between an argument he was having with Max.

Charles noticed where Max was looking and caught his wrist gently before he could trace it. He brought Max's fingers to his lips, kissing them.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Max’s jaw tightened.

The cabin went quiet again after that, filled only by the distant crash of waves outside and the soft creak of old wood beneath them.

Charles leaned back slightly against the cot, studying Max’s face carefully. “You haven’t been home in a while.”

“Over a year.”

“Mm.” Charles’s thumb brushed absently over Max’s knuckles. “Lorenzo wrote about Victoria. She sounds happy.”

A small smile flickered briefly across Max’s mouth. “She’s terrifying now that she is pregnant. She threatened one of my officers with a kitchen knife last Christmas because he said she looked ‘plump’.”

Charles barked out a startled laugh at that, bright and genuine enough to make something loosen in Max’s chest.

“That’s brilliant,” Charles grinned. “That’s the Victoria I remember.”

Max found himself smiling too.

It faded when Charles reached for the strands of hair at the nape of his neck again, expression softening almost unconsciously.

Neither of them said anything after that.

They rarely did when things started becoming too intimate.

That was the rule.

No talking about anything that could make things complicated.

It was easier this way.

Max knew better than to put words to the things living inside his chest. The moment they became spoken aloud, they would become dangerous.

So instead, he leaned in and kissed Charles slowly.

Charles kissed him back immediately, one hand sliding into Max’s chest, warm fingers against his skin.

He decided that maybe it was for the best to get lost in this kiss. To show, without words and as throughoutly as possible, how much Max missed him. How Max felt for him.

Because even if he could never say it out loud, Max knew right now he was home.

—

The sunset light through the cabin window was gentle and warm, filtered by ivy and leaves, casting dappled shapes across the walls. Charles blinked awake slowly, warm and tucked under the worn blanket, the scent of salt and Max still clinging to his skin.

Max was already up. Of course he was. The man never slept much. But the cot was still warm beside him. That meant he hadn’t been gone long.

Charles sat up and stretched, every muscle humming. His body ached in all the best ways. His jaw still felt the ghost of Max’s stubble against it, and his lips were sore from Max's lips. His ribs twinged slightly when he breathed in deep.

He missed this feeling of being loved.

He stepped outside barefoot, blinking against the orange light. The breeze was refreshing against his skin.

 And there, down the narrow trail, shirtless, crouched beside the firepit, was Max.

Hair messy – or as much the short regulation length would let it be. His back was turned and Charles could see the lines in it. The red ones were fresh ones he'd just put there this morning and afternoon. The silver ones were a little older, from times where Charles didn’t own a cutlass and couldn't save him from Captain Jos Verstappen.

He looked so ordinary like that. Just a man preparing food. Not a Captain. Not Navy. Not a servant of the crown. Like he could be somebody's husband. 

Charles leaned against the doorway and smiled at the thought and then immediately let his smile fall. 

Truth is that Max would probably be somebody's husband soon. He was turning twenty-six in a few months. His mother and sister were probably already looking for matches for him. Suitable matches who would help Max's career as Commodore, who wouldn't destroy his life by just… Being.

It pained Charles to think about the day he would meet Max, during a raid, and he would see a gold ring around his finger.

The last definitive proof that Max would never be his.

Charles swallowed the lump on his throat and shook his head. There was no point suffering over something that didn't happen yet. 

“What are you doing, mon capitaine?” Charles asked, trying to bring the teasing tone back into his voice. He blamed the roughness in his tone on just waking up – and screaming from earlier.

Max turned, slightly startled that Charles was awake. He looked beautiful like this, orange light reflecting against his blonde hair, eyes as blue as the Caribbean staring at him. “I caught a fish for dinner. I'm cooking it.” He nodded toward a fish impaled on a stick above the fire. “We should really get some seasonings for the cabin.” 

Charles tried not to melt, thinking of filling this cabin – their cabin – with stuff to make it a proper home.

He shook his head, and walked closer. “I could get used to this.” he commented, because he was a fool.

Max looked up as he laughed softly. “To what? Eating bland food? I don't know how the British do it.” he shook his head.

“To you not wearing a uniform,” Charles said,  regretting his words immediately.

Max glanced up then, his expression unreadable. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“I always do things I'm not supposed to, Max.” Charles murmured, watching the fire dance. “It's my whole stick, non?”

Max didn't say anything. That's how Charles knew he crossed a line.

Max always made it very clear that they shouldn't talk about whatever feelings Charles nurtured or even dream about a future with Max by his side. He never said it out loud, of course, but Charles wasn't dumb. He could read in between the lines.

They ate quietly, side by side on a log, letting the silence stretch between them and wash away the awkwardness.

After dinner, Charles led him down a trail he’d found months ago.

Max was suspicious at first, naturally. But when they pushed through a patch of hanging vines and stepped out into a sun-drenched clearing, Max just… froze.

The waterfall was small but high, cascading over slick black stone into a clear blue pool below. Trees arched above them, and the air was cool and fragrant, dappled with moonlight.

“Come on,” Charles said, pulling off the trousers he put on to eat.

Max stared at him. “How did you find this?”

“Do you forget this island was mine before it was yours?” Charles smirked. He didn't tell Max that after the last time they met, Charles was too depressed to go back to his ship, so he'd just start wandering around aimlessly until he stumbled over this. 

They swam together, naked and weightless in the cold water, laughing like boys again. Max tried to act in his stoic self, but he couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his mouth. Charles dunked him once and earned a full-body tackle that left him breathless. At one point, Max caught Charles in the shallows, wrapping his arms around him from behind. He rested his chin on Charles’ shoulder, eyes closed.

For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped and Charles could breathe again.

“You could stay one more day,” Charles whispered, because he was a fool and a masochist.

Max didn't answer. But he littered Charles' neck with kisses and held him a little tighter.

And the hopeless fool that was Charles heart, took it as a “I wish I could but I can't.”

And that was enough.

—

They spent the rest of the night lounging beneath the stars, talking about nothing—music they’d heard in taverns, the names of crewmates, stories of seasickness and botched tattoos and the terrible food they’d eaten.

“I taught Pierre to play chess,” he murmured. “Since Carlos cheats.”

“Oh?” Max hummed. “And is he any good?”

“Terrible,” Charles said. “He doesn't think before moving a piece.”

Max huffed a soft laugh. He didn't say it out loud, but he thought about bringing a board the next they met. He hadn't played a match against Charles since they were teens and Lorenzo taught them both how to play.

“I caught a fish this big last week.” Charles held up a hand vaguely. “Cooked it myself.”

Max carded his fingers through Charles’s curls. “I bet it was awful.”

“It was,” Charles agreed cheerfully.

That was what they did. They told each other the shallow, harmless nothings that could never be used against them.

Charles traced the constellations with one hand, lying on his back with Max beside him.

“Do you–” Max started and then hesitated. Charles turned to the side to look at him, a question in his eyes. “Do you ever think about what it would’ve been like?” Max asked, eyes glued to the sky above, a small frown in between his eyebrows. “If we’d stayed on our island. If we’d never—”

Charles didn't think he could answer it without saying everything that was stuck in his chest, so instead he leaned in and kissed him slowly and softly.

Wishing Max could read in between the lines as well.

—

The sun was just beginning to peek over the treetops, spilling golden light into the cabin, warm and soft.

Max stirred first.

Charles was still asleep beside him, face turned into the pillow, his lashes dark against his cheeks. In sleep, he looked younger—like the boy Max remembered from his childhood. Not the infamous captain of the Rosso Tempesta, feared in many continents.

Just Charles. His Charles. 

Except he could never really be his, could he?

Max reached over and ran a thumb lightly across Charles temple. That was enough to stir him awake.

“Mmm, bonjour mon amour. Quelle heure est-il?”

Max chuckled. “You know I don't understand when you speak french.”

Charles cracked one eye open, smiling lazily. “That’s because you’re obtuse and refuse to learn.”

“It's a stupid language.” He rolled his eyes.

“If it's so stupid and you still can't learn, then you are simply intellectually inferior.”

Max snorted quietly as Charles shifted closer beneath the blanket, pressing warm and sleep-heavy against his side. His curls were a mess, his voice rough from sleep.

Beautiful. He wished he could wake up to this vision every day.

It was a dangerous thought. Max pushed it away immediately.

Charles reached up and brushed his fingers through Max’s hair again, frowning faintly at the short length. “Peut-être suis-je l'idiot de t'aimer,” he murmured softly.

Max blinked. “What?”

Charles smiled.

“Nothing.”

It clearly wasn’t nothing, but Max knew better than to ask. Charles did this sometimes, hid things inside French because he knew Max wouldn’t understand them.

Probably for the best.

Max leaned down instead, kissing him slowly.

Charles sighed happily into it, still half asleep, one hand sliding up against Max’s ribs.

The blanket tangled around their legs as Charles rolled onto his back, dragging Max partially over him. Sunlight spilled gold across his bare chest, catching against old scars and warm skin.

“Wanna go for another swim today?” Max murmured against his throat.

Charles tilted his head slightly to give him better access automatically. “Mm. The water will be freezing, though.”

“I'll warm you up.” Max bit lightly at his shoulder as a promise, earning a soft sigh in return.

“We should fish too,” Charles continued lazily. “The crew would love some river fish stew. You could take some for your journey as well.”

Max hummed in agreement. “Sounds perfect.”

He was about to capture Charles' lips again when the knocking came.

Three knocks against the cabin door.

Everything stopped.

Charles froze beneath him instantly.

Max lifted his head slowly.

Another silence.

Then Max asked quietly, “Your crew?”

Charles shook his head immediately. “They wouldn't knock.”

Charles sat up fast, reaching automatically toward the pistol near the bedside.

Another knock echoed through the cabin.

Max was already moving.

He grabbed the dagger from the table beside the cot and crossed the cabin slowly, every instinct screaming at him that something was wrong.

Charles stood behind him now, gun drawn, barefoot and tense.

The knocking came again.

Polite and measured.

That somehow made it worse. Clearly, the knocking didn't come from a pirate.

Max tightened his grip on the dagger and pulled the door open.

Lieutenant Lando Norris stood on the other side. Max recognized him from their academy days.

Max went completely still.

Lando looked immaculate in uniform despite the island humidity, hands folded neatly behind his back. Quite polite for someone showing up to a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

“Captain,” Lando said pleasantly. “Good morning.”

Behind Max, Charles quietly cocked his pistol.

Lando’s eyes flicked past Max briefly, clearly noticing the state of the cabin—the discarded clothes, the unmade bed, Charles standing shirtless with a weapon in hand.

Disgust crossed his expression before disappearing again beneath professionalism.

“May I come in?” he asked politely.

Max didn’t move.

Lando sighed softly. “Unfortunately, Captain, I don’t believe you’re in a position to refuse.”

Only then did Max notice the movement beyond the trees.

Marines. Dozens of them.

His stomach dropped.

Charles saw them too. Max could feel the shift in the room instantly.

“We’ve been suspicious for quite some time,” Lando continued conversationally as he stepped inside. “Repeated failures involving one specific pirate. Strange disappearances during leave.” His gaze slid toward Charles again, filled with disdain. “It became quite difficult to ignore.”

Max’s grip tightened painfully around the dagger.

Lando smiled faintly. “You’ve been followed for the last six months, Captain Verstappen.”

Silence.

Max felt like the floor had vanished beneath him.

Six months.

Six fucking months.

“And now,” Lando continued softly, “we finally have undeniable proof.”

Charles moved closer behind Max without thinking. Max could feel the warmth of him at his back.

Lando noticed that too.

“The Crown has deemed this an act of treason,” he said. “Consorting with pirates. Harboring enemies of the state.” A pause. “Punishable by hanging.”

Max’s pulse roared in his ears.

Beside him, Charles had gone frighteningly still.

Lando clasped his hands neatly behind his back again. “I do want you to know, Captain, that this brings me no pleasure.”

Max looked at him then, holding his instinct to scoff. He knew that was a lie.

Lando had always hated losing.

And for years now, Max had been better. Smarter. Faster promoted. The pride of the fleet.

Until now.

Now Lando was looking at him like a man watching a king finally fall from his throne.

Lando reached calmly into the inner pocket of his coat.

Charles’s pistol shifted almost soundlessly beside Max’s shoulder, but Max barely registered it. His mind was already spiraling somewhere else entirely.

Outside, he could hear movement in the trees. Boots against dirt. Metal clinking softly. Marines repositioning.

Far too many to fight.

Lando unfolded a sheet of parchment carefully, like this was some formal social visit instead of the end of both their lives.

“By order of His Majesty,” he began smoothly, “Captain Max Emilian Verstappen is hereby stripped of rank and title and placed under arrest for treason against the Crown, conspiracy with known pirate factions, obstruction of military operations, and—”

Max barely heard the rest.

His thoughts crashed violently into each other.

They followed him for six months.

Six months of leading the navy straight to Charles without knowing.

His stomach twisted so hard he thought he might be sick.

Beside him, Charles had gone utterly still.

Max knew what happened to pirates captured alive.

He had seen executions before. He had led many pirates to the gallows and read them their sentences just like Lando was doing right now. He had even pulled the lever to hang them before.

God.

That was basically what he did to Charles. Because Max had been selfish enough to keep coming back here.

Lando continued reading in the same measured voice.

“Charles Leclerc, also known as the captain of the Rosso Tempesta and his whole crew, is also hereby sentenced to immediate execution upon transfer to Crown custody—”

No.

Max’s pulse slammed painfully against his ribs.

There had to be a way out.

Think.

Think.

The cabin was surrounded. Even if they managed to escape, they would need to reach the cliffs…

Max’s breathing became shallow.

He needed time. A distraction. Something—

Lando kept reading, his voice almost bored. “You are both ordered to surrender your weapons and submit peacefully to—”

The gunshot exploded through the cabin.

For one second, nobody moved.

Lando blinked once.

Then looked down.

Right above his heart, a dark stain bloomed slowly across the front of his pristine navy coat.

Max’s breath caught.

Lando swayed slightly, confusion flickering across his face like he genuinely couldn’t understand what had happened.

Behind Max, Charles lowered the smoking pistol with terrifying calm.

Lando collapsed.

Then hell broke lose.

“SHOT FIRED!”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE!”

“THEY SHOT THE LIEUTENANT!”

Max snapped back into motion just as bullets tore through the cabin windows.

“DOWN!” he roared.

Charles grabbed him hard, both of them diving behind the overturned table as glass exploded across the room.

Gunfire thundered from every direction.

The peaceful little cabin disintegrated around them in seconds—wood splintering, smoke filling the air, sunlight flashing violently through shattered walls.

“Back window,” he snapped at Charles.

Charles didn’t argue.

They burst through the rear of the cabin into the trees just as another volley of shots ripped through the walls behind them.

Branches clawed at Max’s face as they ran. Charles was ahead of him, fast and agile through the undergrowth, but Max could hear the marines closing in behind them.

Too many.

Max’s stomach twisted.

Another shot cracked past Max’s ear. He shoved Charles down behind a boulder just as bark exploded from a tree trunk beside them.

“Shit—”

“They’re cutting us off toward the cove,” Charles hissed, peeking over the rock.

Max looked.

And felt his blood run cold.

Marines ahead and behind. They would be surrounded in no time.

For one terrible second, Max saw it all: the chains, the trial, the gallows. Charles dragged through the streets in irons while crowds screamed for blood.

No. Absolutely not.

His mind cleared instantly.

There was only one way this ended.

He turned to Charles. “Listen to me carefully.”

Charles frowned immediately. “Max—”

“When I say run, you don’t stop. You go straight for the eastern cliffs and jump.”

“What?”

“Your crew will be waiting below. That's how you escape.”

Charles grabbed his arm hard. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You are.”

“Max—”

Another gunshot rang out. Closer.

Max grabbed Charles by the face, forcing him to look at him. “If they catch you, they hang you.”

“And what do you think they’ll do to you?”

Max’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer.

Charles’s expression changed immediately. Panic flickered across his face. “No.”

“Charlie—”

“No.” Charles shook his head violently. “No, absolutely not, we’ll fight our way out—”

“There are thirty men out there!”

“Then we kill thirty men!” 

Max almost laughed at that. Almost. But he couldn't laugh at the fear and desperation in Charles' eyes. Not of dying, but of losing Max.

God, he loved him.

“Listen to me,” Max said, voice rough. “You can survive this. Your crew can disappear into the Pacific and no one will ever find you—”

Charles’s eyes were shining now, furious and desperate. “I am not leaving you behind. Either we run together or we die together.”

Max kissed him before he could say anything else.

Hard and desperate. A goodbye he could never say out loud.

Charles made a broken sound against his mouth, gripping Max’s coat like he could physically hold him there.

Max pulled away first. It nearly killed him.

Max looked at him one last time.

Burned the sight of him into memory, the curls, the wild green eyes, the trembling anger and fear.

Then he lied.

“Okay. Okay, then. We run together. I'll be right behind you. I promise.”

Charles froze.

It was cruel, Max knew it. But it was the only way Charles wouldn't end up in a gallow.

He saw the exact moment Charles chose to believe him.

Max stood abruptly and fired three rapid shots toward the marines.

“NOW!”

Charles ran.

Max waited until he disappeared into the trees before turning fully toward the soldiers crashing through the forest.

“Captain Verstappen!” someone shouted. “Stand down!”

Max answered with gunfire.

Chaos erupted.

He moved constantly, ducking behind rocks and trees, firing strategically instead of wildly. Years of naval combat were guiding his every move. He knew exactly how to slow them down, where to shoot to force cover, where to move to split their formation.

But there were too many.

A bullet grazed his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Pain exploded down his arm.

Max gritted his teeth and kept moving.

All he needed was time.

Just enough time.

He could hear shouting farther downhill now, distant voices from the cliffs.

Charles must’ve reached the ship.

Good.

Another marine lunged at him from behind a tree. Max slammed the butt of his pistol into the man’s face hard enough to drop him, stole the sword from his belt, and turned just in time to block another strike.

Steel clashed violently.

Max drove his elbow into the man’s throat and kicked him backward down the slope.

“Where’s Leclerc?” someone screamed.

Max smiled through blood and sweat.

“Long gone.”

A rifle cracked.

White-hot pain tore through Max’s leg.

He hit the ground hard, dropping his sword and pistol.

For a second, the world blurred.

Boots surrounded him instantly. Rifles pointed directly at his head.

“Don’t move!”

Max tried to stand anyway.

A marine slammed the stock of a rifle into his ribs. Something cracked. Max collapsed back into the dirt, gasping. Everything tasted like blood.

Hands grabbed him roughly, wrenching his arms behind his back, his shoulder burned but Max didn't have the energy to scream. Chains snapped around his wrists.

“Max Emilian Verstappen,” a voice snarled above him. Max didn't recognize it. “you are hereby charged with treason against the Crown.”

Max barely heard him.

His chest heaved as he looked toward the cliffs through the trees.

And there, far out on the water—

Red sails.

The Rosso Tempesta cutting through the sea like a streak of blood against blue.

Charles had made it.

Relief hit so hard it nearly brought Max to tears.

One of the marines yanked him upright. “You threw your life away for a pirate.”

Max looked at the horizon.

At the fading red ship.

And despite the blood in his mouth and the chains around his wrists, he smiled.

—

England suited misery better than the Netherlands. At least, that was what Max had decided sometime during the second sleepless night in the prison cell beneath Portsmouth Harbor.

The air here was damp and cold enough to settle into his bones. Stone walls sweated with moisture. Somewhere down the corridor, water dripped steadily into a bucket with maddening regularity.

His shoulder burned. His leg was numb where the bullet grazed his shin. Max was pretty sure it was infected.

One of his ribs was definitely broken.

And every inch of him ached from the interrogation sessions they insisted on calling questioning.

Max sat on the narrow cot with his back against the wall, staring at nothing.

It had been two weeks since the island.

Two weeks since Max had watched the Rosso Tempesta disappear into the ocean.

The trial had happened two days ago.

It was a quick and efficient affair. The crown presented it's arguments: that Captain Max Emilian Verstappen, war hero, rising star of the Royal Navy, future Commodore was a traitor.

Max hadn’t spoken once during the proceedings to defend himself.

Not when they stripped him of rank. Not when they listed his crimes. Not even when the judge sentenced him to death by hanging at dawn.

In the end, they didn't need to drag it out.

It was quite obvious to everyone watching that Max had accepted his fate.

And he did. Because Charles was alive. That was enough. Anything that happened to him was worth it if that was the outcome.

The Navy hadn't accepted his silence so easily.

There were daily questionings, daily beatings and torture.

Where is Charles Leclerc heading?

Where does the Rosso Tempesta anchor?

What ports aid the pirates?

Max had laughed once during one interrogation, blood in his mouth. Not because he thought it was funny, but because he genuinely didn’t know.

Charles never told him things like that.

It was their rule, the one he created exactly for this purpose.

No sharing secrets that could destroy the other if captured.

Max had made up that rule in the beginning because he was afraid to get too attached. He thought the less they knew about each other, the better.

Little did he know, this rule would end up coming in handy.

But even if Max had known, they would’ve needed to carve the information out of his rotting corpse. He would never put Charles in any danger willingly.

The cell door creaked somewhere down the corridor. Max barely reacted. It was probably one last questioning before his special commitment tomorrow.

His execution was supposed to happen at sunrise.

He thought he should feel afraid. Instead, he mostly felt tired.

The only difficult part of the trial had been seeing his mother and Victoria there.

His mother had cried silently through the entire sentencing. Victoria hadn’t cried at all. She’d simply stared at the judge and the navy officials like she wanted to kill them with her bare hands. The only moment Max almost showed any reaction was when he saw Victoria's pregnant belly and realized he would never meet his nephew or niece.

Max wished neither of them had come.

It would’ve been easier remembering disappointment instead of grief.

His father hadn’t attended. That, somehow, hurt less.

Footsteps stopped outside his cell.

Max looked up slowly, expecting an unknown face ready to beat him up.

Instead, Daniel Ricciardo, Max's former first mate and closest friend, stood there holding a bowl.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Daniel looked exhausted. His uniform hung crookedly off his frame, dark circles beneath his eyes. He still couldn’t quite look directly at Max.

Max understood.

Daniel had testified during the trial. Not willingly, Max suspected, but he had still done it.

Max couldn't blame him. In a way, he had betrayed Daniel as well. He couldn't hold Daniel's own betrayal against him.

Quietly, Daniel unlocked the small hatch in the bars and slid the bowl through.

“Thought you should eat something.”

Max didn't bother looking at the food, instead he stared at Daniel. “Trying to poison me before dawn?”

Daniel huffed softly at that. Not quite a laugh. “Not even death could stop this tongue of yours, uh?”

Silence settled between them afterward.

Daniel eventually sat down heavily on the floor outside the bars, shoulder pressed against the stone wall beside the cell.

For a while, they simply sat there together. Like old friends.

Finally, Daniel spoke quietly.

“I don’t understand, Max.”

Max stayed silent.

Daniel rubbed tiredly at his face. “You had everything, mate.” His voice cracked slightly with frustration now. “Everything. You were going to be the youngest Commodore in naval history.”

Max didn't look away.

“You were the best captain I’d ever had.”

Somehow, that hurt more than any accusations could've.

Daniel finally glanced at him properly for the first time all night. “How could someone like you throw it all away for a pirate?”

Max was quiet for so long Daniel probably thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then finally—

“He wasn’t a pirate when I met him.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Daniel frowned slightly.

Max leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling above.

“We were ten,” he said quietly. “We used to live on the same island. Charles was a troublemaker, always running around with his brothers, causing trouble. My father told me to stay away from him. So I did.” A faint ghost of a smile crossed his face despite everything. “Then, one day, some boys were picking on Victoria. I was about to get to them when Charles threw a rock at them. Straight into one of the boy's noses. He said he didn't like bullies.”

Daniel listened silently.

“We became friends after that. I didn't like bullies either. We used to sit on the cliffs together for hours and talk about sailing. His dream was to sail the world, to feel the ocean breeze in his face. To commander a ship.” Max swallowed once. “We both dreamed of the navy back then. To be in the same ship, rise the ranks together. To, maybe, even commander a fleet side by side.”

God, he hadn’t talked about this in years. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see it, clear as day, twelve year-old Charles, smiling at him, talking about his dreams of sailing with Max.

“Then his father died,” Max continued softly. “He worked in the docks and a big crater fell on him during a storm. And suddenly Charles had to think about how to feed his family instead of dreaming about the future.”

Daniel stayed quiet, listening in a way Max hadn’t expected him to.

The prison corridor was deadly silent around them. Just the distant drip of water somewhere in the dark and the occasional crackle of torches burning low.

Max rubbed absentmindedly at the bruising around his wrist where the shackles had sat during the trial.

“I saw him working on the docks from dawn until night,” he continued quietly. “Getting thinner every month because every coin he earned went to his mother and Arthur, his younger brother.” A faint breath escaped him. “His older brother Lorenzo worked too, but Charles…” Max shook his head slightly. “Charles always always tried to carry the weight of the world by himself.”

He remembered arguing with him about it constantly.

‘Let me help you, Charles, I have some gold I can—’

‘No.’

‘Charlie—’

‘I don't want your charity, Max.’

Stubborn even then.

Max stared at the stone floor.

“Then, one night pirates docked on the island.” His expression darkened slightly at the memory. “The Navy prepared for a fight, but nothing happened. No attack. No bloodshed. They stayed one night and left by morning.”

Daniel frowned faintly. “And Charles left with them.”

Max nodded once, remembering how he felt when he realized Charles was gone. How it felt like a piece of his heart was missing.

“His family never admitted anything, but…” He shrugged slightly. “Suddenly they weren’t starving anymore. There was food. New clothes. Gold.”

He remembered the whispers around the island.

The Leclerc boy sold his soul to pirates.

Max had ignored all of it.

“I asked his mother for years if she knew where he was,” Max admitted softly. “Every time I returned home.” A humorless little smile touched his mouth. “She always told me she hadn’t heard from him.”

“But you knew she was lying.”

“She was a terrible liar.”

Daniel snorted quietly.

Max looked down at his hands again.

“I spent years wondering what happened to him.” His voice lowered slightly. “Never really stopped thinking about him.”

And that always had been the problem, hadn't it?

“Then,” Max said after a moment, “during my first year sailing for the Navy, we intercepted a pirate ship near Madeira.” His chest tightened instinctively at the memory. “There was fighting everywhere. Smoke. Fire.” His gaze drifted somewhere far away. “And then suddenly there he was.”

Charles.

Looking older.

Beautiful in a way that had genuinely knocked the breath from Max’s lungs.

“He had a sword against my throat before I even realized it was him.”

Daniel leaned back slightly against the wall. “And that’s when all this started?”

Max shook his head slowly.

“No.” Because the truth was far messier than that. “We fought.” A faint smile crossed Max’s face despite himself. “It was different than when we sparred as kids. Charles had become way faster and more skilled with a blade.”

“But you won.”

Max nodded once.

“I disarmed him.” He could still remember it perfectly: Charles backed against the ship railing, breathing hard, curls sticking to his forehead while Max held a blade to his chest.

Kill him, every instinct had screamed. He's a pirate. He won't hesitate in killing you.

And yet—

“I couldn’t do it,” Max admitted quietly. Daniel studied him silently. “So I let him go.”

“What did he do?”

Max’s smile widened slightly at the memory. “He laughed at me.”

Daniel barked out an incredulous laugh. 

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

Max could still see it clearly—Charles bleeding from the lip, swordless, completely at Max’s mercy—

And grinning.

“You’ve gone soft, Maxy. You'll regret this one day.”

Max had hated how relieved he’d felt hearing his voice again. How happy he felt hearing his name from his lips once more. 

“I told him,” Max continued, “that next time would be different.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Promised him I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Max looked away briefly.

“And then we met again a month later.”

This memory felt different. Softer, somehow, even if it was bloodier.  Sadder as well.

“I was on leave,” Max said quietly. “Stopped at a tavern near Cádiz.”

“Alone?” Daniel frowned, like Max was crazy.

“I wanted peace.”

Daniel snorted softly. “As if we could ever find peace in this life.”

Max ignored him.

“I already had a few drinks when five pirates recognized me.” His expression darkened slightly. “Apparently I’d developed a reputation already.”

And then things went bad quickly. Max had been unarmed, outnumbered and tipsy. It would have been an easy slaughter for them.

“They cornered me, beat me up pretty good,” Max rubbed absently at his ribs now, remembering. “One of them stabbed me.”

Daniel grimaced.

Max could still feel it sometimes if he thought too hard about it—the blade sliding into his side, the sudden warmth of blood soaking through his shirt.

“I genuinely thought I was going to die.”

And strangely enough, he hadn’t even been afraid. 

Just angry.

Because it had seemed like such a stupid way to die.

Then, a flash of steel. Someone shouting. And suddenly Charles was there.

Max fell quiet, remembering.

Daniel frowned slightly, coming to a conclusion. “Charles saved you.”

Max nodded once.

“He killed all five of them.”

There had been blood everywhere afterward.

Max barely remembered being carried anywhere.

Just flashes of Charles yelling at him to stay awake, of strong hands pressing against the wound. Of the smell of seawater.

Then the cabin.

“He took me there, on the cabin they found us,” Max murmured softly. “Patched me up, nursed me back to health.”

Daniel looked at him carefully now. “And that’s when it started.”

This time, Max didn’t deny it.

He just leaned his head back against the prison wall again, eyes distant with memory.

Max had been feverish and half-conscious in bed while Charles stitched the wound carefully closed.

“Why?” Max had asked weakly. “Should’ve let me die.”

Charles had looked almost offended by the suggestion.

Then simply said:

“I always pay my debts, Max.”

Silence settled between them again after that. Not uncomfortable, just heavy.

Daniel stared out toward the dark corridor, elbows resting on his knees, while Max sat back against the wall with the untouched bowl cooling beside him.

The prison smelled like damp stone and rust.

Max found himself thinking about the cabin again.

Of morning sunlight and the sea breeze.

Charles laughing softly against his mouth.

The way he had looked half-asleep and beautiful in bed beside him only moments before everything collapsed.

Of the three words he never uttered out loud, that he would carry to the gallows instead.

It felt impossible that it had only been two weeks. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Daniel suddenly stood and dusted off the front of his uniform awkwardly before jerking his chin toward the bowl. “Eat the soup.”

Max let out a tired scoff. “Seems a bit pointless now.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened slightly. “Eat it anyway.”

Something in his tone made Max finally look at him properly. Daniel was staring very pointedly at the bowl.

Slowly, Max frowned and reached for it.

The soup had gone lukewarm already. Honestly, it looked disgusting with murky broth and floating scraps of vegetables. Max wanted to tell Daniel he didn't see any point in eating if he was going to die in a few hours anyway, but something about Daniel's tone made him stop.

He shifted the spoon once through the liquid—

And froze.

Something metallic clinked softly against the bottom.

Max’s pulse quickened.

Carefully, he tilted the bowl slightly, letting the broth fall against the stone floor. A small iron key and a few pieces of raw carrot were the only things left at the bottom of the bowl.

For one suspended second, Max forgot how to breathe. He looked up at Daniel, questioning.

Daniel’s expression gave nothing away. He crossed his arms loosely instead, gaze fixed somewhere over Max’s shoulder.

Max’s stomach twisted hard.

And if anyone discovered this…

“Daniel—”

“Don’t,” Daniel interrupted quietly. His voice sounded rough now. Tired. Sad. Like he had just lost his best friend. “You should find him.” He still wouldn’t fully look Max in the eye. After a moment, he said softly, “And I hope we never meet again.”

Max swallowed.

He understood that.

Daniel was a navy man. Through and through.

He didn't say those words because he suddenly hated Max.

What he meant was:

I hope I never have to hunt you.

I hope we never stand on opposite sides of a battlefield.

I hope I never have to choose between my duty and my friend again.

Max wished that he would never have to put Daniel in that position in the first place. He was going to make sure it never happened again.

He looked down at the key, then back at Daniel.

Slowly, he nodded once. “Thank you.”

Daniel immediately shook his head sharply. “Don’t thank me.” His eyes finally met Max’s then, firm and calm. “Nothing happened here tonight.”

Max held his gaze for a long moment.

Then gave the smallest nod.

Daniel exhaled quietly after that, relief flickering briefly across his face. He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform again, slipping his mask of professionalism back into place piece by piece. Then, he turned his back and left.

Max never saw Daniel again.

—

The prison was quieter at night.

The distant crashing of waves against Portsmouth Harbor echoed faintly through the stone corridors, mixing with the occasional cough from another prisoner down the hall and the soft shuffle of tired guards changing posts.

Max waited until the tower bells rang twice to signal two in the morning.

Then he moved.

Prisons had rhythms just like ships did, for patrols and stationed guards, and, luckily for him, Max knew this prison quite intimately.

He had escorted innumerous prisoners here himself during his years in the Navy. Smugglers. Mutineers. Pirates.

He remembered all the routes, most of the blind spots, which hallways lead nowhere, which pathways were not used anymore. But most importantly, he remembered which officers he had to punish for cutting corners and being lazy at night.

Slowly, Max sat up.

Pain immediately tore through his ribs hard enough to make his vision blur for a second. He pressed a hand against his side and breathed shallowly until it passed.

Then he pulled the iron key from his pants.

Max swallowed once before unlocking the cell.

He eased the door open just enough to slip through and immediately locked it behind him again.

If someone glanced down the corridor quickly, it might buy him another few seconds, maybe even minutes before they realized the cell was empty. Every second mattered.

But most importantly, Max didn't want his escape to ever go back to Daniel. He doesn't want to make it clear that he was able to easily unlock the door. He doesn't want them to think he had any help from the inside. It's the least he could do.

Max moved carefully through the corridor, favoring his injured leg despite how awkwardly it pulled at his ribs. His shoulder throbbed steadily beneath bloodstained bandages.

He knew that if it came to a real fight, he was dead.

So he avoided one entirely.

At the first corridor intersection, Max paused beside the wall and waited patiently until a guard rounded the corner, right about the time where he should have.

Max stepped out immediately.

The guard startled. “Captain Verst—”

Max drove his elbow straight into the man’s throat before he could finish. The guard collapsed, choking silently.

Max caught the lantern before it clattered against the stone floor. Stealth was his number one priority.

He dragged the unconscious guard into an empty alcove, away from any suspicion, and stole the ring of keys from his belt, along with a dark overcoat to partially conceal his dirtied and torn clothes beneath.

The disguise wouldn’t survive close inspection. But at two in the morning, most of the guards were too tired to pay much attention.

Max kept moving.

Down the eastern stairwell, never the central one. That one was faster but it was also too exposed, always fully staffed.

The eastern route led toward supply storage and harbor access. Officers rarely used it because the stairs flooded during high tide. Most guards considered it a dead route, Max also did during the short time he spent inside these walls.

Now it would be quite useful.

Halfway down, voices echoed below.

Max immediately flattened himself against the damp stone wall.

Two guards climbing upward, laughing about something. Very distracted.

Max waited until they passed the landing beneath him before quietly slipping over the railing instead of continuing down the stairs properly. The drop jarred painfully through his injured leg.

He bit back a curse and kept moving as quickly as he could.

The lower corridor smelled like saltwater and mold. Dim lanterns barely illuminated the passage.

Max knew there would be a point ahead near the exterior gate where two or three guards were usually stationed. He hoped the gods were on his side and tonight there would be only two and that they wouldn't be too big to take on a fight.

He slowed near the corner, listening first. No voices but there were bootsteps pacing.

Max frowned, from what he could hear there was only one person walking. Only one guard? His lucky day.

The young marine stood near the exterior gate, marching back and forth, musket propped tightly against his side.

Max recognized him vaguely, from his most recent visit to the academy, when he made a speech. His name was Gabriel? Maybe?  He was the kind of boy whose eyes still shone when talking about representing the Navy.

Max almost felt bad. Almost.

He picked up a loose pebble from the ground and tossed it down the opposite corridor. The clatter echoed loudly enough that the boy jumped immediately. “Who’s there?”

As the boy stepped away from the gate, Max moved silently behind him. Only one hard strike at the base of the skull did it, the boy crumpled instantly.

Max caught him before he hit the floor, he couldn't afford the noise.

“Sorry, mate.” he muttered quietly as he laid the boy down.

Max kept walking as fast as he could with his fucked up leg and ribs aching. The harbor access tunnel was just ahead, after a few hallways and there would be a gate that would lead outside.

From there, he could disappear into the docks before sunrise and go find—

Hushed voices echoed suddenly around the corner.

Max went still. He couldn't tell how many. There weren't supposed to be any guards down there at that hour but maybe things had changed since the last time Max had been there at night. 

Inside of the Navy coat there was a small dagger that wouldn't help him much in a fight, but Max still gripped it tightly and made himself ready.

If he was going to die, he was going to do it fighting.

The voices were closer now, almost turning the hall.

Max reacted instantly, pulling the dagger out.

A figure lunged out from the darkness ahead, fast as lightning, slamming him hard against the wall. There was hand twisting his wrist and suddenly, Max's own dagger was against his own throat.

“Don’t fucking move,” a voice hissed.

Max froze.

Even exhausted and half-dead, he’d know that voice anywhere.

Charles clearly didn’t recognize him yet beneath the guard coat and the low light. His face was hidden beneath a dark hood, expression angry and lethal in the low lantern light.

Behind him, Max caught glimpses of more shadows moving through the corridor.

Some of the Rosso Tempesta’s crew, all armed to their teeth.

Something warm and painful twisted inside Max’s chest. Were they here to rescue him?

“Where are the prisoners kept?” Charles snapped. “Tell me or die.”

Max almost laughed fondly. Instead he reached slowly for the collar of the stolen coat and tugged it down slightly.

Charles’s eyes flicked upward automatically.

And widened almost comically.

The dagger dropped instantly with a loud clang against the stone floor, and for one breathless second, Charles just stared at him, like he genuinely couldn’t believe he was real.

“Hey, Charlie—”

Then Charles punched him square in the jaw.

Max staggered sideways with a curse, nearly losing his footing entirely thanks to his injured leg.

“What the fuck—”

“You liar!” Charles looked furious. His green eyes are shining with anger and fear and exhaustion all at once. Charles was shaking as well. “You absolute fucking liar!”

“Charles—”

“You said you were right behind me!” The words cracked apart halfway through. Only then did Max realize Charles was crying. Furious tears spilling down his face while he looked at Max like he wanted to either kiss him or kill him.

Possibly both.

Max’s chest tightened painfully.

“I had to get you out,” Max said quietly.

Charles barked out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to breaking apart. “So your brilliant plan was to die instead?!”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Max tried not to sound annoyed. He understood why Charles was so upset but he had his reasons as well. “I was trying to save you, Charlie.”

“You lied to me!” Charles shouted, punching Max's chest. “You could've have died!”

Voices echoed distantly somewhere above them now. They probably had realized Max was gone.

Pierre swore quietly somewhere down the corridor, but neither Max nor Charles paid attention.

Max straightened slowly despite the pain screaming through his ribs. “There were thirty marines on that island, Charles!”

“And?”

“And you would’ve been hanged!”

Charles stepped closer immediately, eyes blazing. “So would you!”

“Yes, but I—” Max stopped himself suddenly, instinct making him clench his jaw.

Charles stared at him, tears falling from his eyes. So impossibly green, with speckles of gold and blue. It was like the ocean on it's calmest day, right at sunset.

Max could never live with himself knowing those eyes weren't out there anymore.

Charles’s voice cracked suddenly. “Do you have any idea what those two weeks were like for me?”

Max looked away briefly, because he couldn't face those beautiful eyes so filled with pain. Pain that he caused.

That hurt more than the punch had.

“You promised me, Max.”

I’ll be right behind you.

Guilt hit Max like a blade between the ribs. Because he had known, even while saying it, he’d known it was a lie.

Charles shoved at his chest hard enough to make Max stumble back against the wall again. “I hate you!”

“It was the only choice, Charles.”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“Yes, it was!” The words cracked loudly through the corridor. 

Silence followed immediately after.

Max’s breathing had turned uneven now. Not from his injuries, although those weren't helping, but from Charles. From knowing the tears on his face were his fault. 

“You were supposed to live,” Max said more quietly now. “That’s why I stayed behind. I would have stayed behind a thousand times if it meant you survived, Charles. To me, that's the only choice.”

Charles stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “I would never want to live without you.”

The words landed hard.

Max felt something inside himself finally give way under the weight of exhaustion and pain. 

“And I wouldn't want to live knowing you were dying because of me.” he whispered.

Charles’s face twisted. “Don’t.”

“I would gladly walk to the gallows if that meant you were alive.”

Charles stared at him in shock.

And Max realized immediately he’d finally said what he had been hiding for years.

“I could not—” Max stopped himself hard, jaw tightening violently. “I could not stand there and watch them hang you. I don't think I could live with myself.”

Charles’s expression cracked slightly.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.” Max laughed bitterly. “God, Charles, do you really think I could survive that?” His voice rose despite himself. “All because I was too stupid to notice I was being followed?” Max continued, anger turning ugly now, shame rising on his throat. “All because I failed you?”

“You didn’t fail me.”

“Yes, I did!” 

More shouts echoed above in the tunnels, coming closer, but neither of them moved.

Max dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “I would do it again.”

Charles shook his head, tears falling.

“If it meant you escaped?” Max shook his head once. “I’d do it a thousand fucking times.”

“Max—”

Then Max did the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life. More reckless than treason. More reckless than piracy.

He looked directly at Charles and finally said the one thing they had spent years not allowing himself to feel.

“I love you, Charles.”

Everything stopped. Even the noise from the prison above seemed distant suddenly.

Charles went completely still.

Max felt terrifyingly calm afterward. Like jumping from a cliff and finally hitting the water.

“I love you,” he repeated more quietly, voice rough now. “And I cannot fathom standing there while the man I love dies.” Max felt his throat tight. “I’m sorry I lied, but I just couldn't, okay? I'd rather it be me, a thousand times than you, just even once.”

Charles stared at him like the world had just tilted sideways. For one long moment Charles simply stared at him.

Then suddenly his entire face crumpled.

“You absolute idiot,” he whispered shakily, tears falling even faster now. Max frowned slightly. Charles laughed once, but it broke halfway through into something closer to a sob. “Do you know how it felt when I looked behind me…” His voice cracked badly. “And you weren’t there—”

Max felt guilt twist immediately through his chest.

Charles shook his head sharply, tears spilling now despite how hard he tried stopping them. “I thought they killed you.”

“Charles—”

“I mourned you for a week.” The words hit Max like a knife between the ribs. Charles wiped angrily at his face. “We held a fucking funeral for you.” Max stared at him helplessly. “I stopped eating.” Charles laughed bitterly. “Pierre punched me because I kept saying I should turn myself in too.”

“What?” Max paled at the thought.

“I was going to.” Max’s stomach dropped. Charles looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and something heartbreakingly broken underneath. “Then I saw your trial mentioned in a newspaper at the port.” His breathing shook unevenly now. “And I crossed two oceans in two days because I kept thinking—”

His voice failed briefly.

Max stepped closer instinctively.

Charles swallowed hard. “I kept praying they hadn’t executed you yet.”

God.

Max felt like his chest was splitting open.

“You think you couldn’t survive watching me die?” Charles whispered. “I lived an entire week believing you already had.”

Max closed his eyes briefly.

“And the last thing you ever said to me,” Charles continued shakily, “was a lie.”

The guilt nearly crushed him whole.

Slowly, carefully, Max reached up with his good hand and touched Charles’s face. Charles leaned into it immediately. Max brushed away a tear with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Charles shut his eyes. Max stepped closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “I don’t regret staying behind,” he admitted quietly. “Not for one second.”

Charles’s face tightened painfully.

“But I regret…” Max swallowed once. “I regret almost dying without telling you.”

Charles opened his eyes again slowly.

“That’s why I escaped,” Max whispered. “I needed you to know. I couldn't die without telling you.”

Something in Charles’s expression broke completely. All the anger drained out of him at once, leaving behind something painfully soft and overwhelmed. The tears were still falling from his eyes, but it didn't pain Max to look anymore.

“You idiot,” he whispered shakily. “You need to almost die to tell me that?”

Charles crossed the distance between them instantly and kissed him hard enough to steal the rest of the air from his lungs. 

There's relief and grief and love and desperation. Max kissed him back immediately, grabbing fistfuls of Charles’s coat like he needed the grounding reality of him there.

It felt addicting, this knowledge that Charles was well and alive. Here, in his arms.

When they finally broke apart, Charles pressed his forehead against Max’s, eyes shining.

“You absolute fucking idiot,” he whispered again, voice cracking this time. “I love you too, and if you ever pull this shit again, I'll kill you myself.”

Max smiled faintly despite everything. “I won't.”

Behind them, Pierre cleared his throat loudly. “So, are we gonna escape or…?”

Somewhere above them, the shouting became even louder, way too close, and bells began ringing violently.

Pierre swore under his breath. “Wonderful timing.”

Charles whipped his face harshly, his face hardening into a Captain's expression immediately. He knelt down and grabbed the dagger he dropped earlier, giving it back to Max, who tucked it away safely in his pocket.

He grabbed Max’s wrist and pulled him away from the wall. “We need to move.”

Max nodded once and pushed himself to move— 

Pain tore through his ribs so intense his knees nearly buckled.

Charles caught him instantly. The look on his face darkened. “What happened?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, right. Please stop lying to me, Max.” Charles' tone was very serious. “Let me protect you.”

Max sighed, nodding. Right.

“My ribs are broken.” Max admitted through his tight jaw. “And I was shot on my leg and arm. Just grazed but it's probably infected.”

“Fuck,” Charles muttered, his hands hoovering like he wanted to check. “We'll go slow, okay?”

Another shout echoed closer now. Bootsteps too. Lots of them.

The pirates immediately shifted into motion around them, weapons drawn.

Carlos moved toward the front. Ollie toward the rear corridor.

Pierre handed Charles a pistol with practiced ease. “I have a feeling we can't go back from where we came.”

“I know,” Charles muttered. “But where…?”

Max straightened despite the pain. “The western tunnel.”

Charles looked at him immediately.

“It connects to the old supply docks,” Max explained quickly. “We’ll need to fight, though.”

Pierre smiled, wickedly. “I was hoping for a good fight.”

Max ignored that.

Another volley of footsteps thundered, above and behind them. Shouts coming from the docks as well.

Charles grabbed Max’s arm again. “Lead the way.”

They moved fast through the narrow corridors, boots splashing through shallow seawater leaking into the old stone passages. Max stayed ahead despite Charles clearly wanting him in the middle of the group instead.

Old captain instincts even now.

The western tunnel entrance appeared half-collapsed behind a rusted iron gate.

Max immediately stepped forward. “Don't shoot.” he warned when he saw Pierre point his gun at it.

Pierre frowned. “But—”

“Pick the lock. The noise will give away our position.”

Pierre sighed and rolled his eyes, he crouched before the mechanism, fingers working quickly despite the lack of light.

Behind them, shouting echoed louder.

Lantern light flickered down the corridor.

“They’re coming!” Ollie hissed.

Pierre cursed and pulled his gun, shooting it twice before it clattered on the floor. Pierre immediately shoved the gate open. “Move, c'mon!”

The crew started funneling through the tunnel—

Then gunfire exploded behind them.

The first bullet shattered against stone inches from Max’s head.

“THERE!”

Marines flooded the corridor.

And at their front—

Captain George Russell.

His uniform was immaculate, sword already drawn in one hand. The scar cutting across the left side of his face gleamed pale beneath the lantern glow. An ugly, jagged line disappearing beneath his jaw.

Max’s stomach dropped instantly. He had met George a few times before, although mostly in passing, but he knew of George's reputation. 

Ruthless. Almost as ruthless as Max.

George’s eyes locked immediately onto Charles.

Hatred flared openly across his expression.

“Well,” George said coldly, “look who crawled out of the sea.”

Charles went very still beside Max.

Then slowly smiled. Wide.

“George.” His voice dripped mock affection. “You look terrible.”

George’s hand tightened around his sword hilt. “You should’ve killed me properly when you had the chance.”

Charles tilted his head. “And miss watching your face crying in pain? Never.”

Max frowned slightly between them.

Ah, of course. Famously, a pirate had given George that scar. Max never really cared about asking which one. Charles never told him about it — they had rules about that. Now it all made sense.

George’s gaze slid over Charles like a blade. “It will be my personal pleasure leading you to the gallows.”

Charles barked out a laugh.

“Oh, Georgie,” he purred, drawing his pistol lazily. “Say hello to Dave Jones for me, will you?”

Behind him, Pierre cocked a rifle, Ollie grinned wickedly, Carlos cracked his knuckles.

George visibly hesitated.

Max stepped forward again automatically despite the pain screaming through his side. “Charles, go.”

Charles turned slowly toward him.

Max kept his voice steady. “You can still make it out if I hold them here.”

Charles stared at him in utter disbelief.

“Did you hit your head in prison?”

“Charles—”

“No.”

Max’s frustration snapped instantly. “Don’t do this again.”

Charles moved closer until they were nearly chest to chest despite everything around them.

“I just crossed an ocean to save you,” he said furiously under his breath. “You do not get to sacrifice yourself again.”

“It’s the best option.” Max looked toward the advancing marines. “There are too many.”

“Yes,” Charles said sharply. “But this time we're not alone.” 

The words hit harder than Max expected.

George raised his sword slightly. “Last chance, Verstappen. Give yourself in and no one needs to die tonight.”

Silence stretched.

Max looked at the marines. Easily fifty of them.

Then at Charles, who was still staring at him stubbornly, furious and terrified all at once, begging him to trust him.

Max let out a shaky breath through his nose, then slowly stepped backward toward Charles instead of toward the Navy.

George’s expression hardened slightly.

Charles immediately grabbed Max’s hand hard on his own.

“Good,” he muttered. “Rosso Tempesta,” he shouted, thunderous against the stone walls. “Kill them all.”

Then all hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted through the corridor.

Smoke exploded outward as Pierre and Carlos fired first, forcing the marines back. Alex threw hard of what looked like oil on the floor and against the marines, while Ollie hurled a lantern against the stone wall, flames catching on a few men's coats and lighting the oil up.

Max moved automatically.

Years of Navy training took over before pain could stop him.

A marine lunged toward him and Max ripped the sword from the man’s hands mid-strike and slammed the hilt hard into his jaw. The man dropped instantly.

Max barely had time to breathe before another attack came from his left.

Steel clashed violently.

Pain screamed through his injured shoulder as he blocked the strike, but adrenaline drowned most of it out.

Around him the chamber dissolved into chaos: Smoke and fire, shouting everywhere, the loud noise of steel against steel.

Charles moved through the fight like something born for it, fast and vicious and beautiful in the most terrifying way possible.

George met him head-on.

Their swords collided with a crack sharp enough to echo.

“Did you miss me, Georgie?” Charles grinned. George snarled and drove him backward hard. “I've been thinking of giving you something to match that.” He smirked.

George fought back viciously, clearly angered beyond reason.

Max took down another marine, breath ragged now as his ribs screamed with every movement.

“Max!” Pierre shouted. “LEFT!”

Max turned just in time to duck a rifle strike aimed at his skull. His injured leg nearly buckled beneath him.

The marine saw it instantly and lunged.

 A gunshot exploded.

The man collapsed before reaching Max.

Charles stood several feet away, pistol smoking in one hand while still dueling George with the sword in the other.

Show off.

Max almost laughed.

Then George slashed viciously toward Charles’s throat. Charles twisted aside at the last second and retaliated ferociously.

His blade carved across George’s face with horrifying precision.

George screamed as blood sprayed across the stone floor.

This time the wound cut differently. A second scar crossing the first, forming an L, carved brutally into his cheek.

Charles stepped back breathing hard, eyes wild. “There,” he hissed. “Much prettier.”

That seemed to do it. George screamed like he lost his mind.

“Kill them all!” he roared. “NOW!”

The marines surged forward again. Far too many.

Max saw it instantly.

They were going to be overwhelmed.

“CHARLES!” he shouted. Charles looked toward him immediately. “RUN!”

For one terrible second, Charles hesitated.

And that was enough.

George slammed into him from behind, sword jerking violently against Charles’s throat before he could recover.

Everything stopped.

Charles froze.

George held him hard against his chest, blood pouring down his own face while his blade pressed dangerously against Charles’s neck.

“Move,” George snarled at the others, half-insane with fury, “and I slit his throat.”

The entire chamber went silent except for the distant crackle of fire somewhere deeper in the tunnels.

Max’s pulse stopped cold.

George held Charles tightly against him, sword pressed hard enough to Charles’s throat that a thin line of blood already trickled down his skin.

Charles had gone perfectly still. He didn't seem afraid, and that somehow made it worse for Max. 

He knew Charles, he knew that man way too well. He knew the look on his eyes. Charles was planning something.

“Drop your weapons,” George snarled, making blood gush down the ruined side of his face. “Now.”

Pierre swore softly in French, dropping his guns. Ollie looked seconds away from doing something catastrophically stupid, but Alex seemed to stop him, dropping both of their swords on the floor.

Max slowly raised his hands instead.

The chamber blurred slightly around the edges from pain and exhaustion, but he forced himself to stay calm.

Think.

George’s eyes were wild, he was clearly very emotional right now, not thinking clearly anymore. 

That could make him very dangerous, but also very reckless.

One mistake. That’s all he needed.

Slowly, reluctantly, all the pirates lowered their weapons.

Steel clattered against stone.

George laughed breathlessly. “There we go.”

His sword pressed harder into Charles’s throat.

Max’s stomach twisted violently.

Charles met his eyes across the room.

And suddenly, there it was again. That look.

Charles had a plan.

Charles’s gaze flicked downward briefly.

To Max’s coat, right where his pocket was. Where the dagger was still tucked in.

Then back up.

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Max stilled, watching carefully.

Charles winked once with his left eye twice.

The entire conversation happened in less than a heartbeat.

And Max understood immediately.

It was risky, though. One wrong throw, one slip because of his shoulder— he could kill Charles instead.

George tightened his grip again. “On your knees.”

Max didn’t move.

Because Charles was still looking at him, trust so clear in his eyes, Max had no other option but to get it right.

Max nodded once, barely visible.

Charles smirked.

Then everything happened at once.

Max moved faster than pain. His good hand ripped the dagger free from his pocket and threw it as precisely as he could. Straight toward Charles.

George saw the movement too late.

Charles jerked sideways at the exact same second Max released the blade.

The dagger flew past Charles’s cheek so close it cut a strand of curls—

And buried itself directly into George Russell’s eye.

George screamed. A horrible, wet, pained sound.

His sword jerked away from Charles’s throat instantly as he staggered backward clutching at his face.

Chaos exploded again.

Charles moved first.

He twisted free violently, elbow smashing into George’s ribs before stealing the man’s own sword from his grip in one smooth motion.

“RUN!” Max shouted.

Gunfire erupted immediately.

Pierre grabbed Alex by the coat and physically dragged him toward the tunnel exit while Carlos fired behind them. Ollie was laughing behind them, shooting toward the marines as well.

George collapsed to his knees screaming, blood pouring through his fingers.

Charles turned back toward Max, and for one awful second Max thought he was actually going back for George.

Instead Charles sprinted toward him.

“You insane bastard!” he shouted breathlessly. “We should do this again sometime!”

Max barked out a laugh despite himself. “We should fucking not!”

Charles grabbed him hard around the waist anyway and practically hauled him toward the escape tunnel while bullets ricocheted off the stone behind them.

Marines shouted.

Smoke filled the chamber.

But this time, Max was right beside Charles.

—

The rescue party sprinted through the collapsing lower corridors, boots splashing through seawater while bells rang across the entire prison fortress above them.

Max forced himself forward despite the agony in his thorax.

Charles stayed glued to his side now, one hand gripping the back of Max’s coat like he genuinely believed Max might try sacrificing himself again if left unsupervised.

Behind them, gunfire cracked through the corridor.

“Left or right?” Carlos shouted when he found a crossroads.

“Right!” Max immediately shouted back. “Left leads to a dead end after the storage rooms.”

Pierre looked bewildered. “How do you know that?”

“I transported prisoners here for six years straight.”

“…right. Still deeply unsettling how many of us you killed.”

Max ignored him as another explosion shook dust from the ceiling overhead.

The tunnels finally opened outward toward the lower harbor exit and cold sea air crashed into them instantly.

Max stopped short.

The docks below were absolute chaos.

The Rosso Tempesta sat anchored just beyond the harbor, massive against the dark water, lanterns glowing gold across her decks. Cannons lined her sides like rows of teeth while dozens of pirates rushed across the ship preparing for departure.

Max knew Charles had a big crew from their encounters over the years, but it somehow looked even bigger now. Probably over fifty men, all armed to the teeth.

It made Max wonder why the rescue team was so small. Where they hoping to be stealthy?

Sailors hauled ropes overhead while others loaded cannons or shouted coordinates back and forth across the deck.

Several smaller skiffs waited hidden beneath the docks.

Pierre smiled, proudly. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Max stared at the ship. Charles watched him carefully. “You hate her.”

“No,” Max admitted quietly. He did think the red sails were a bit much but he didn't hate Charles' ship. It was pretty. Nothing compared to the luster of the Bliksem but pretty nonetheless. “I absolutely understand why the Navy wants to sink her, though.”

Charles grinned.

Then rifle fire exploded from the prison cliffs above them.

“DOWN!”

Everyone scattered instantly as bullets slammed into the docks.

“They’re mobilizing the harbor batteries!” Alex shouted.

Of course they were. Max’s pulse kicked immediately into battle rhythm again.

“Those cannons will destroy the skiffs before we reach the ship,” he snapped.

Charles turned toward him instantly. “Ideas?”

Max pointed toward the eastern watchtower. “The harbor guns have a blind spot between reload positions. Twelve seconds every rotation.”

Pierre blinked. “How do you know that?”

“I was the most decorated captain in the last few years of the Navy, the youngest one too. You don't think I know every single weakness and strength they have?”

The pirates all stared at him briefly.

Charles looked unbearably smug.

“Mon Capitaine,” he purred, “you are the sexiest traitor alive.”

Max ignored that completely.

“Wait for the second cannon discharge,” he ordered automatically. “Then we move immediately.”

Charles’s grin widened further.

He probably thought Max was hot while ordering people around. That was unfortunate information for Max’s future sanity.

BOOM.

The first harbor cannon fired, shaking the docks violently.

“Wait,” Max snapped.

The crew crouched low behind crates and stone pillars while splinters exploded around them from rifle fire.

Max counted automatically beneath his breath.

“…eight…nine…” The harbor battery rotated slowly. “…ten…eleven…”

BOOM.

“NOW!”

They sprinted immediately.

The pirates moved with terrifying speed, racing down the docks toward the waiting skiffs while the harbor cannons struggled to reposition.

Charles shoved Max into one of the boats personally before jumping in after him.

“ROW YOU FUCKERS!” Pierre shouted.

The skiffs launched hard into the black water just as another cannon roared overhead.

The shot missed them narrowly, but slammed directly into the docks behind them, splintering them everywhere.

Max grabbed an oar automatically despite the pain.

Charles immediately frowned. “Don’t.”

“C’mon Charlie, we need all the help we can get.”

Charles seemed torn but he couldn't really argue with it, so he sighed and grabbed an oar as well, rowing twice as hard as he normally would.

The Rosso Tempesta loomed larger with every violent pull through the waves.

Above them, sailors shouted from the main deck.

“CAPTAIN ON APPROACH!”

“STARBOARD READY!”

“RAISE THE ANCHOR!”

Ropes dropped instantly from above.

The crew aboard moved fast and disciplined, hauling the skiffs upward the second they reached the hull.

Max barely had time to regain footing on deck before Charles’s crew erupted around them.

Cheers, shouting and relieved laughter.

“Captain’s back!”

“And he brought the Navy dog with him!”

“Careful,” Ollie called cheerfully. “He bites.”

Max blinked slightly as sailors rushed around preparing the ship for immediate departure. They were quite efficient with it, as well. Maybe that's why all the Navy's captains had trouble catching up to them.

Charles stepped forward instantly the moment his boots hit deck.

Everything shifted around him.

The soft man Max saw on those prison balls vanished.

Captain Leclerc emerged in his place instead.

“Sails full east!” he barked. The crew moved immediately. “Cannons prepare portside! Move, you useless maggots, move!”

The Rosso Tempesta surged violently beneath them as the anchors lifted free from the ocean floor.

Then the harbor exploded behind them.

Navy ships poured from the docks, three— No, four frigates.

Max’s stomach dropped instantly. “Oh, that seems a bit excessive.”

Charles followed his gaze and grimaced slightly. “Ah, the war fleet? Really?”

Cannons thundered across the water.

The battle began instantly.

The Rosso Tempesta lurched as cannonballs slammed into the sea around them while the pirate crew roared back with return fire.

Smoke filled the night air.

Orders echoed across the deck.

“STARBOARD SIDE!”

“RELOAD!”

“I NEED MORE GUN POWDER!”

Max leaned heavily against the railing, trying very hard not to collapse in front of everyone.

The escape from the prison had cost him more than he realized.

His shoulder burned,his leg barely held his weight anymore, and, worst of all, every breath felt like knives sliding between his ribs.

Still, he forced himself upright as another cannonball crashed into the water beside the ship, spraying seawater across the deck.

Behind them, Navy ships pursued relentlessly through the darkness.

Charles stood near the helm barking orders with terrifying confidence, coat whipping wildly in the wind.

Beautiful.

Alive.

Worth everything.

Max tried to take another breath and nearly blacked out from the pain.

“Max?” someone asked nearby, Max couldn't tell who.

The deck tilted strangely beneath his feet. 

No, not the deck. Him.

Max blinked slowly, trying to focus on the lantern light overhead, but the sounds around him had started muffling together oddly.

Cannons.

Shouting.

Waves.

Charles yelling his name—

And then nothing.

—

The first thing Max noticed when he woke was the movement.

That gentle rocking beneath him.

He recognized this anywhere. The ocean was under him, soothing with it's motion.

The second thing he noticed was warmth.

Soft blankets pulled over him, the faint smell of saltwater and tobacco and expensive cologne lingering in the room.

Then came the ache.

It was everywhere.

Max groaned softly and cracked his eyes open.

He saw a wooden ceiling and the warmth of sunlight flooding it.

For one confused moment he had the strangest sense of déjà vu, lke waking up in that old cabin years ago after Charles stitched his side back together for the first time.

Only this time—

Charles sat beside the bed reading quietly.

His boots rested against the edge of the mattress, dark curls falling messily into his eyes while he flipped lazily through some weathered book.

Max stared at him for a second longer than necessary.

Charles must have felt it somehow because he glanced up suddenly.

The book immediately dropped forgotten onto his lap.

“Max.” Relief flooded across his face so quickly it hurt to look at.

Before Max could even answer, Charles leaned forward and kissed him, slow and firm. Max melted into it instinctively despite how much his ribs protested.

When Charles finally pulled back, he rested his forehead briefly against Max’s.

“You scared me again,” he murmured.

Max’s voice came out rough from sleep. “I’m sorry.”

Charles snorted softly. “No you’re not.”

Max blinked slowly around the cabin instead. It looked like the captain's quarters, although he had never been into Charles' quarters to be sure. It looked like it could belong to Charles, with books scattered everywhere, a chess board sitting on top of a oak table at the corner. There boots and clothes piled on a different corner and maps everywhere on the walls. There was also a picture, quite old, of the Leclercs. All five of them, Lorenzo in the middle, holding Pascale's hand — she was holding a baby on her arm, that Max assumed it was Arthur – then Charles on the right, holding his father's hand.

It was quite peaceful.

“What happened?” Max asked, not fully sure if he remembered.

“We escaped.” Charles leaned back in the chair finally, though one hand stayed loosely wrapped around Max’s wrist like he still needed proof he was awake. “No major losses other than your reputation.” 

Max frowned slightly, trying to piece together memories through the haze.  Charles smiled faintly. “Valtteri says your ribs are cracked in three different places. You are lucky it never punctured your lungs.”

Ah, that explained the inability to breathe.

“How long have I been out for?”

“Almost two days.”

Max groaned quietly.

Charles’s expression softened immediately. “Easy.”

“I’m fine, Charles.”

“You’re clearly not fine, or else you wouldn't have fainted in the middle of battle,” Charles informed him. “Very embarrassing, by the way.”

Max huffed out a laugh that immediately hurt. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

No, he didn't.

Max shifted carefully against the pillows. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere west of France by now. We'll probably be in Spain soon.” Charles shrugged lightly.

“Can I see the map?” Max asked, trying to move so he could stand. Charles stopped him immediately.

“Absolutely not!” He frowned. “Valtteri confined you to bed until further notice. You are not allowed to help with anything until he clears you.”

Max groaned. “There’s no need for that.”

“I gave him permission to sedate you if needed.” Charles raised an eyebrow in threat. 

“You’re being unreasonable, Charlie.” Max grumbled and laid back once again.

Charles smiled softly at that, reaching to touch Max's cheek. “Get used to it, Cheri. I am quite unreasonable about the things I love.”

Max looked up at that. It still felt surreal they could actually say things like that out loud now. “Okay. As long as you know, I'm the same way.”

For a little while neither spoke.

Just the creak of the ship around them. Waves beneath the hull. Charles’s thumb absentmindedly brushing over Max’s cheek.

Then finally Max asked quietly:

“What now?”

Charles looked at him for a long moment.

Then something mischievous flickered back into his eyes.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “first I’ll have to demote Pierre.”

Max frowned slightly. “Why?”

Charles leaned back in the chair dramatically. “Well, I would love to have a first mate who's highly decorated and knows all of the Navy's weaknesses.” Charles grinned shamelessly. “Pierre will understand, of course. Especially once I explain that one of the new duties of the first mate includes warming the captain’s bed.”

Max barked out an actual laugh before wincing painfully and clutching his ribs.

Charles looked delighted with himself.

“I better be the only first mate who ever had that duty,” Max muttered once he recovered slightly, “or else we're gonna have a problem.”

Charles’s expression softened instantly. “You are, Mon cour, the only man who ever had that honour.”

The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected. Max looked at him quietly for a second.

Then asked again, softer this time:

“And after that?”

Charles smiled.

Not the mischievous grin, the kind of open and sincere smile he only ever opened when they were alone together in the cabin.

“After that,” he murmured, “we sail.”

“Where?”

“Wherever we want.”

Max stared at him.

Charles squeezed his hand lightly. “We do whatever we want. We tell each other every secret we weren't allowed to say before.” His smile turned smaller now. “And no one gets to stop us.”

No Navy. No Crown. No rules.

Just them.

For the first time in years, Max let himself imagine it fully.

A future with Charles, where he gets to wake up everyday by his side, tell him everything he ever wanted and allows himself to feel everything he always repressed.

Max smiled softly against the pillow.

It sounded wonderful.

“I like this plan.”

“Where should we go first, mon amour?” Charles asked.

“I don't know,” Max grinned. “You tell me, my captain.”